"Let every man look in his heart and see What the wish he most lusts to win, And then let him fasten his eyes on me While he thinks of his darling sin." And every man--bishop, and lord, and king Thought of what he most wished to win, And, fixing his eye on that grewsome thing, He beheld his own darling sin. No longer a ghoul in that face he saw; It was fair as a boy's first love: The voice that had curdled his veins with awe Was the coo of the woodland dove. Each heart was on flame for the peerless dame At the price of the husband's life; Bright claymores flash out, and loud voices shout, "In thy widow shall be my wife." Then darkness fell over the palace hall, More dark and more dark it fell, And a death-groan boomed hoarse underneath the pall, And was drowned amid roar and yell. When light through the lattice-pane stole once more, It was gray as a wintry dawn, And the bishop lay cold on the regal floor, With a stain on his robes of lawn. Lord Ronald was standing beside the dead, In the scabbard he plunged his sword, And with visage as wan as the corpse, he said, "Lo! my ladye hath kept her word. "Now I leave her to others to woo and win, For no longer I find her fair; Could I look on the face of my darling sin, I should see but a dead man's there. "And the dowry she brought me is here returned, For the wish of my heart has died, It is quenched in the blood of the priest who burned My sweet mother, the Saint of Clyde." Lord Ronald strode over the stony floor, Not a hand was outstretched to stay; Lord Ronald has passed through the gaping door, Not an eye ever traced the way. And the ladye, left widowed, was prized above All the maidens in hall and bower, Many bartered their lives for that ladye's love, And their souls for that ladye's dower. God grant that the wish which I dare not pray Be not that which I lust to win, And that ever I look with my first dismay On the face of my darling sin! As he ceased, Kenelm's eye fell on Tom's face upturned to his own, with open lips, an intent stare, and paled cheeks, and a look of that higher sort of terror which belongs to awe. The man, then recovering himself, tried to speak, and attempted a sickly smile, but neither would do. He rose abruptly and walked away, crept under the shadow of a dark beech-tree, and stood there leaning against the trunk. "What say you to the ballad?" asked Kenelm of the singer. "It is not without power," answered he. "Ay, of a certain kind." The minstrel looked hard at Kenelm, and dropped his eyes, with a heightened glow on his cheek. "The Scotch are a thoughtful race. The Scot who wrote this thing may have thought of a day when he saw beauty in the face of a darling sin; but, if so, it is evident that his sight recovered from that glamoury. Shall we walk on? Come, Tom."